by Joseph Flynn
“Do you think they’d accept Secret Service protection for the time being?” the president asked.
“I think that would be a comfort … until they get angry,” Jean said.
“We’ll try to resolve the matter before that happens,” the president said. Turning to SAC Kendry, she added, “Please get contact information for the Naughtons from the vice president when we’re done here, Elspeth, and now is the time to turn off your recorder.”
Turning to McGill, she asked, “What do you think, Jim?”
“There’s a no-fly zone around the Naval Observatory just like the White House, right?”
The president nodded.
“So, I have to think,” McGill said, “the picture wasn’t taken from any obvious aircraft like a helicopter. That suggests the creeps used a small UAV. If that’s the case, and they’d intended to kill Jean instead of photograph her, they’d have fired a missile rather than a gunshot.”
Elspeth Kendry nodded; Galia grew pale again.
Jean Morrissey got mad once more.
McGill continued, looking at his wife, “So what they had in mind could be twofold. Make a misplaced attempt to get the vice president to resign and show us they have the ability to carry off an assassination on Inauguration Day. Scare you into staying indoors. Especially if Jean wasn’t as tough as she is and did resign.”
The vice president snorted at the idea.
Everyone laughed and for a moment the tension was broken.
The mood quickly turned serious again when the president said, “Maybe the thing to do then would be for Jean and me to make an unscheduled public appearance, a show of solidarity, maybe make a policy point or two along the way.”
A grim smile appeared on Jean Morrissey’s face.
“Damn right, Madam President,” she said. “That’s just the thing to do.”
McGill said, “I’m all for shaking up the schedule, except for Inauguration Day, but let’s review the rest of the activities planned for you and Jean over the next eleven days. See if we can figure out the times when we could throw the bad guys a curve or two.”
This time it was Elspeth Kendry who agreed emphatically.
After asking for and receiving a moment alone with the president, McGill told her, “I need a favor.”
The two of them were still sitting next to each other. Patti squeezed McGill’s hand, “You deserve one. Bringing Galia into this situation in advance was the right thing to do. She’ll likely have an idea or two that wouldn’t have occurred to you or me.”
McGill said, “I just wanted to make her faint so I could catch her.”
Patti grinned. “She didn’t and neither did you.”
“She almost did and I did. You can ask Elspeth. Mostly, though, I wanted to get everybody together to show Jean we’re all behind her, and we need her.”
“In case anything should happen to me?” Patti asked.
“You and me,” McGill said. “I think you had a good idea, the two of you making a surprise appearance somewhere, but you have to know I’m going to be on hand, too.”
Patti said, “I’d have mixed feelings about that. I’m not the only one who needs you.”
McGill sighed. He knew Patti was thinking of the kids: Abbie, Kenny and Caitie.
“We’ve got to have faith things will be okay for all of us. But right now being close to you, in case help is needed, is what I have to do.”
Patti said, “All right. But let’s increase the security on the children for the time being.”
“Absolutely,” McGill said.
“So what’s the favor you want?”
“I’m going to ask Deke if he can stand going back to the Secret Service.”
“While continuing to be your personal bodyguard.”
“Yes,” McGill said. “That was why I went to see Elspeth, to smooth things over with her about the idea of Deke coming back. I’m still uneasy that Special Agent Riddick came along and tried to arrest me. I need someone with official standing to tell anyone trying to do the same sort of thing again to buzz off.”
Patti nodded. “Politics in this town have gone beyond being nasty. Threats to assassinate both Jean and me. An attempt to arrest you. It makes me wonder if —”
McGill shook his head. “No, it doesn’t. You know the country would be worse off by far if the House had elected Howard Hurlbert president. Sheryl Kimbrough did the right thing.”
Patti kissed McGill. “You are so good for me.”
“All part of my master plan.”
“Your objective being?”
“More kisses, other shows of affection and a long, happy retirement, both of us knowing we did our best whenever called upon.”
Patti smiled. “Would you like to be my speechwriter?”
“Only if you’ll use the cuss words I write for you.”
“Maybe we’ll hold off on that. Do you think we should increase Sheryl Kimbrough’s security?”
“I do, and her daughter’s, maybe even her ex’s, too.”
“I’ll see to it, and if you can persuade Deke to take his old job back, I’ll fix that, too. Is there anything else?”
McGill nodded. “Welborn called me this morning. He and Celsus had an interesting time last night.”
“Tell me all about it,” the president said.
Williamsburg, Virginia
Welborn fetched two left over milking stools from the estate’s garage, formerly a barn for dairy cows. The new lord of the manor had asked Kira whether they should buy a cow and be independent of the nearby chain stores for milk, butter and ice cream. His dear wife had told him, “Sure, if you want to get up in the dark to milk Elsie, churn the butter and … do whatever the heck you do to make ice cream, be my guest.”
The Yates family continued to shop at the Williamsburg Fresh Market.
Despite bowing to modern convenience, Welborn had kept the milking stools he found in his garage. He intended to get around to refinishing them, but had yet to do so. Neglect paid in this case. The weathered look was right in keeping with the personas he and Celsus had adopted.
They sat in the smithy five feet away from Arlo Carsten’s head.
A sufficient distance that any unfortunate tremor on their captive’s part wouldn’t bring the anvil down on one of their feet.
“C’mon, guys,” Arlo whined, “I’m really hurting here, and now that I think about it my bladder’s stretched pretty good.”
“Shoulda thought of that before you tried to put a knife into my friend’s back,” Welborn told him.
Celsus had yet to speak to Carsten.
But his gaze under the Stetson’s brim was pitiless.
“I wasn’t gonna stab him. I … I just wanted to scare him.”
“He look to you like the type that scares?” Welborn asked.
“Well, no, not now that I get a good look at him.” Adding quickly to Celsus, “Not that there’s anything wrong with the way you look. You’re a fine looking man.”
Arlo paused to consider his last comment.
“Look, I didn’t mean that the wrong way either. Aw, shit, I’m just making things worse.”
Welborn told Arlo, “A man in your position doesn’t have a whole lot of room for things to get worse, does he? Messin’ with a man’s fiancée, then trying to stick him.”
Arlo winced at the news. Looking at Celsus, he said, “Oh, hell. I didn’t know she … Hey, you know, you’re a lucky guy, mister. Gonna marry a woman like that. First time I saw her, I thought —”
Celsus leaned forward. The better to hear Arlo or maybe to slit his throat.
Looked like it could go either way.
Arlo decided to take the conversation in a new direction.
Turning to Welborn, he said, “You were right. I do have some money, and I’d be happy to give it to you if you let me go.”
“How much money?” Welborn asked.
Before Arlo could answer, Celsus said in his cowboy voice, “Don’t matter.”
�
�Why not?” Arlo asked, the fear plain in his eyes.
Celsus told him. “This is a smithy right? All we got to do is heat up a few coals, get ‘em glowing red and yellow.”
“White’s good, too,” Welborn said. “Can’t get hotter’n white.”
“That’s right. Maybe we’ll start at red, go to white. Pick up a coal with the tongs. Drop it right on you.”
Arlo started to shudder. He stopped when he realized he was tugging on the anvil.
“Shouldn’t take more’n two or three, he tells us how to get his money.” Welborn said.
“Never has,” Celsus agreed.
A shiver ran through Arlo. The moment passed and took the bound man’s fear with it. He looked both Welborn and Celsus in the eye and didn’t blink.
“You know what? Fuck you both. You kill me, just see what happens to you. The people I work for, they’ll roast both your asses. Feed you to their damn dogs.”
The two captors sat back and looked at each other.
“Kinda funny he should just now think of something like that,” Welborn said.
“Well, he has to pee,” Celsus reminded Welborn. “That mighta distracted him.”
Both of them laughed, something Welborn had not suspected the former SAC was capable of doing. But they sounded good. Like two homicidal cretins just about to have some fun.
Arlo’s fear came back, but he was still in there pitching, “You shitkickers wouldn’t laugh if I told you what I’m a part of, a big part.”
Welborn and Celsus fell silent.
Gave Arlo looks so cruel they scared him worse than ever.
Welborn said in a menacing whisper, “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
Celsus leaned in close again like he didn’t want to miss a word.
Arlo knew he’d better come up with something good now.
So he went with the only thing he had that qualified.
The truth.
Aboard Air France
Gabbi Casale’s flight from New York to Paris got off to a bumpy start. The pilot asked everyone to remain seated for “just a moment or two,” promising he would find some smooth air before too long, which turned out to be an hour and a half later. Gabbi would bet that every passenger aboard experienced the same rise in blood pressure she did, but the adults on the plane did their best to remain stoic.
From the rear of the cabin, though, came the cries of an infant. The dips and shudders of the aircraft upset the child as much as anyone else. The baby’s distress added to the general sense of unease. A senior flight attendant took a blue blanket back into economy class and a moment later the little one stopped bawling.
Gabbi drew the logical conclusion. Mom was nursing her child, discreetly, under the cover of the blanket. The comfort of a warm, nourishing breast and the shelter of the soft blanket had trumped the erratic progress of the plane.
The kiddo seated next to Gabbi in business class looked like she could use some reassurance and distraction, too. Eight years old or so with shining dark hair and heart shaped face, she was doing her best to keep her fear in check, but tears had formed at the corners of her brown eyes. Mom and Dad occupied the seats directly across the aisle. Their daughter had wanted to join them, but she was too big to sit on either of their laps.
They all had to keep their seatbelts buckled to be safe.
The parents looked almost as scared as their daughter.
Gabbi was on edge herself. There were moments when it almost seemed as if the plane was flying backward. As long as she didn’t see a flight attendant openly weeping, though, she was determined to maintain her composure.
She asked the flight attendant who’d brought the blanket to the nursing mother, “Auriez-vous une autre couverture pour ma jeune amie?” Would you have another blanket for my young friend?
“Oui, Madam.”
The girl, who hadn’t done more than glance at Gabbi, turned to her now.
“Parlez-vous français?”
“Oui.”
“Je m’appelle Madeleine.”
Gabbi extended her hand. “Je m’appelle Gabriella. Mes amis m'appellent Gabbi.”
Madeleine shook hands but frowned.
“That last part,” she said in English. “Your friends call you Gabbi?”
“Très bon.” The compliment came from the flight attendant.
She wrapped the blanket around the girl.
Then the pilot asked all the flight attendants to please be seated.
Madeleine looked at her parents. They smiled as bravely as they could.
Gabbi said, “You’re American, right?”
Madeleine looked at her and nodded.
“You want to do something fun?”
“What?”
“I’m a pretty good artist, but when a plane is bumping around like this, I find it’s the best time to do really funny drawings.”
“What do you mean?” Madeleine asked.
Gabbi took two sketch pads and pens out of her carryon bag, handed one of each to her young friend. She flipped Madeleine’s pad open to a blank page. Put the bag back under the seat in front of her.
“Now, hold tight to your pad and pen,” she told Madeleine. “What you want to do is draw the face of a friend or maybe a boy you know and when the plane bounces around you’ll get all sorts of funny lines. Let’s see who can do the funnier drawings before the pilot finds that smooth air he was talking about.”
Gabbi started. Madeleine watched with fascination, the way people do when they see an accomplished artist at work, and laughed when a bump in the air made the line she was drawing take a crazy detour.
“That made your drawing’s nose real big,” the girl said.
“Well, let’s see what I can do with it,” Gabbi told her, working the unplanned line into her sketch.
Madeleine watched and followed Gabbi’s lead, choosing, no surprise, to make a hilarious drawing of a boy. His eyes, mouth, ears and hair style all took unplanned directions, provoking much laughter. There were still scary moments, but Madeleine focused on completing her drawing, returning to it after each jolt.
By the time they’d each completed three comic portraits, the pilot made good on his promise and found calm air. The plane’s movement went from a thrill ride to a lily pad floating on a pond. There were a few audible sighs of relief and smiles throughout the aircraft.
Madeleine grinned at Gabbi and asked, “Do you have some of your drawings in here?”
In the sketch pad, she meant. Gabbi nodded.
“May I look at them?”
“Sure,” she said.
Mom and Dad smiled at her from across the aisle. Mom mimed a “Thank you.”
“These are great,” Madeleine said, leafing through Gabbi’s sketches. One pencil portrait stopped her cold. “I know him.”
“You do?”
“He’s the president’s husband, Mr. McGill.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you know him?”
“He’s my friend.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Gabbi saw Mom and Dad were listening now. She didn’t want to get into a political discussion, pro or con, with them. She wanted to keep things light. So she told Madeleine. “He and I fought a giant under a bridge in Paris.”
Madeleine’s eyes grew big. Mom and Dad repressed laughter.
Minutes later, the little girl fell asleep with her head resting against Gabbi’s arm.
When the plane taxied to its gate, Dad leaned in and gave his business card to Gabbi.
He said, “Thank you. You were great. We’re starting a year’s stay in Paris. If there’s ever anything we can do for you, please give me a call.”
Edward Baxter was a senior VP in a commercial realty firm.
He’d handwritten a personal phone number on the back of the card.
Gabbi said thank you and tucked his card in a pocket.
Charles de Gaulle Airport — Paris
Tommy Meeker, an old pal from the U.S. embassy who had
succeeded Gabbi as regional security officer, met her as she deplaned.
He held a card inscribed Belle Madam d'Artiste. Beautiful Artist Lady.
Gabbi laughed and gave Tommy a hug. He whisked her through customs and drove like a cabbie to the Gare de Lyon. Perks of diplomatic status.
En route, he told her, “You said Yves Pruet’s family has a villa just outside Avignon, right? You’ve got a first-class ticket on the TGV and a room at Hôtel Cloitre Saint Louis. I booked two nights for you but there should be no problem adding nights or cutting back to one. It’s off-season. But all this is on my AmEx, so you’ll be able to reimburse me before the end of the month?”
“Right away, Tommy. I’m doing a favor for James J. McGill.”
“Ooh-la-la,” Tommy said.
“Yeah. I intend to be on my best behavior, but if I need a little weight behind me …”
Tommy gave her his card, saying, “My new mobile number and the consul general’s personal number in Marseilles.”
“You’re the best,” Gabbi said.
“Only when you’re back in the States.”
Gabbi smiled, kissed his cheek when they stopped for a red light.
“Any headlines on Pruet or his family?” she asked.
“Not that the national French media or Herald Tribune have to report. Maybe a local journal down in Provence has some news. So how’d Mr. McGill’s portrait turn out?”
“He likes it and I like it. We’ll have to see about the critics and history.”
Tommy pulled up in front of the train station, handed Gabbi her tickets and hotel reservation.
“So you’re what now,” he asked, “a painter and a private eye?”
Gabbi laughed. “Yeah, just like Mom and Dad always wanted.”
The National Mall — Washington, DC
“It turns out my family does have a bill of sale for our painting,” Pruet said.
McGill directed an inquiring look at the magistrate.
Pruet explained the situation as the two men walked west on the Mall.
“That is too cool,” McGill said with a smile. “A thank you note from Renoir. I think my parents have some gold-star Crayola drawings I did in kindergarten.”
“Each one a masterpiece, I’m sure,” Pruet said with a straight face.
